


I'll give you one more time

by troubleinateacup



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Drug Use, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Riding, Shotgunning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-15 05:23:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4594461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troubleinateacup/pseuds/troubleinateacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“All I’m saying is that this is a fast, painless solution, boys. I’m not suggesting we go all Bonnie and Clyde!” Louis raises his voice for that part, so Harry can hear him from the kitchen. He ignores him. </p><p>“A one-off, I swear. Just one time. One time to fix this shit properly, cause I’m fucking fresh out of ideas.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll give you one more time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stylinsonshmylinson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stylinsonshmylinson/gifts).



> A million thanks to R for reading this over and putting up with my irregular and frankly awful writing schedule. Also cheers to the prompter for giving me an excuse to listen to The 1975 non-stop whilst writing this.

When Harry wakes, the bedroom is filled by the late afternoon sunlight filtering through those ratty lace curtains that came with the house. Specks of dust sift through the rays, suspended in the bars of yellow light like insects in those amber stones at the museum. A car passes by the open window, and somewhere further off, there’s a siren. Harry watches the particles of dust orbit around each other, his head still clouded by sleep.

 _Fuck. How long was I out?,_ he wonders. _What time is it? What day?_

It’s about then that he notices the searing pain emanating from his left side.

Harry’s hands lift to his torso, and his long fingers ghost over the upside-down V of his ribcage. He meets no bruise, no broken skin, until they graze across his left side. He hisses at the brief contact, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth and biting down.

There’s a bandage over the wound at least, a square of bloodstained white stuck onto his bare skin with Sellotape. Then, there’s a scuffle of shoes over the wooden floor beside the bed, and a familiar face comes into view. It hovers close enough for Harry to spy the individual pores dotted over the tan skin, and to smell the salt of the sweat forming at the hairline. Close enough to see three different shades of purple around the eye socket.

Louis. Beautiful, reckless, stupid Louis hovers over him with eyes as wide and blue as the cheap willow pattern dinner plates they brought to the sharehouse with them. Harry releases his lip from his teeth, the  pain continuing to elicit short, sharp breaths from him. Louis’ eyes dart across his face, his lips parting in a mix of surprise and utter relief.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Haz,” he breathes, “Nearly thought we’d lost you.”

 

*

 

_Three weeks earlier._

 

Louis’ hands clamp over Harry’s shoulders as he falls forward, thumbs digging into the hollow of Harry’s collarbones and bitten fingernails gouging out the crest of his shoulder blade. A part of Harry’s mind tells him that that really should hurt - it does, a little at least - but Louis’ fingers feel like fire when they meet Harry’s skin, and as they slip over his naked chest, they leave a trail of frost behind. It’s hard to feel pain amongst all that.

Harry pushes his shoulders into the touch, his eyes lulling shut at the sensation. Louis holds on. His  fingers dance along the angle of his shoulder, and he rolls his hips back and up, lifting onto the balls of his feet, arching himself off Harry. He draws out this out for a moment, shifting centimetre by centimetre off Harry, his mouth falling open a little bit further every time, until he stops, halfway. Harry’s eyes open at the sudden stillness, and they graze up Louis’ body spread over him: the V of his hips, the intricate lettering hanging off his collarbones, the razor sharp jaw line he loves to lick over, the hooded blue eyes staring right back at him. Louis’ lips purse into a smirk when Harry’s eyes arrive at his. Apparently this is what he’d been waiting for, because he slams right back down on Harry again. Harry’s breath hitches at the abrupt change, and then again as Louis grips the thin skin over his shoulders - what’s left of it - under his nails and does it again, twice, in rapid succession.

Harry moves his hand to Louis’ hip, his other arm still bent at the elbow up to keep the joint off the polyester blankets. He can’t help but stare as Louis rocks back and forwards over him, hips flicking in torturously slow circles, his tiny hands pinning Harry’s shoulders down. Harry can barely move the joint to his lips, straining his neck as he lifts his head in an attempt to meet his fingers. But Louis intercepts it, tilting his head forward and sealing their lips together.

Like everything else this evening, the kiss is long and languid, and Harry swears he can taste the last of the Special K Louis had for breakfast on the corner of his tongue.

 _Do tongues even have corners?_ One tiny part of his brain asks. _They must,_ another answers, _how else could Louis’ be so sharp and still wrap underneath his like silk?_

With Louis leaning into the kiss, Harry uses the moment to push his hips up and hits Louis’ prostate dead on. Louis gasps into his mouth and Harry swallows it up, pecking his lips once more, then dragging his bottom lip lightly between his teeth as to not let the moment become too sweet. They move so well together, he thinks. Harry pulls his head back and Louis emits a soft whine, his lips moving to chase after Harry’s. Harry evades it again, and  - with some effort, since Louis’s got all of his weight on his shoulders and Harry is far too relaxed to try to move with any real intention - brings the joint to his lips. He hollows his cheeks around it as he sucks, his eyes never leaving Louis’. He could swear Louis’ eyes darken to two black holes in front of him then. And sure enough, he’s swallowed up by them again. Louis surges forward and wraps his forearms around Harry’s head, lips clamping to his and stealing the smoke from his mouth.

On his inhale, Louis rocks his hips again, and Harry feels a familiar tightening in his belly. In a few moments he’s coming into the condom, Louis not too far behind, shooting onto Harry’s stomach with another whine. He slips off Harry and shuffles down from his crotch, his knees still split apart over Harry, chest heaving. And then he’s - he’s leaning - leaning backwards. Louis’ whole body from the knees up, leaning back in one straight line - Harry can see the muscle in his thighs straining -  leans back further and further until he collapses onto the space of bed between Harry’s spread legs, lower legs still wrapped around Harry’s thighs.

Fucking hell, he’s flexible. And Louis laughs, actually laughs. Giggles titter from his mouth and Harry can feel the mattress shake under his mirth. He’s beautiful. Harry’s can’t see his face, only his body stretched and twisted around his, skin to skin, golden in the summer afternoon light. And Louis - he swears - he glitters there.

He loves him. Harry loves him.

The thought barely makes its home in his brain before the bedroom door flies open and Niall barges in, not the slightest bit perturbed by the smell of sex, the cum drying on Harry’s chest, or Louis’ flagging dick in his immediate eyeline. He claps his hands together.

“Well then. If you boys are finally done for the afternoon, care to join us in the kitchen?” He’s too chipper for a Sunday evening, but chipper is hardly an abnormality for Niall. It’s his default state. Harry heaves a sigh at the thought. Is it Sunday already? The week of work and constant job hunting in between exhausted him. Harry flips Niall off, balancing the joint between his thumb and index finger as Niall glances to Louis, upside down and a dopey grin covering his face, before shaking his head and closing the door behind him.

Harry smokes up the last of the joint and stabs it out in the bedside ashtray. He pats Louis’ thigh, rubbing circles into the soft skin between each.

“They’re waiting for us.” He murmurs, and Louis groans, writhing against the mattress. It shouldn’t be nearly so erotic. Harry sighs, “Come on, Lou. Rent. Bills. Adult stuff.”

Louis reaches his arms over his head to grab at the end of the bed. His back arches off it in restless protest. More of his skin meets the warm sunlight, teasing.

“Nooooo. Wanna stay here a bit longer. Wanna lie here a bit longer. Don’t leave yet, Haz. Stay.” He reaches one hand up to clasp Harry’s, their fingers slotting together easily and his thumb grazing over the curve of Harry’s palm, “Stay.”

Harry could stay like this forever, too. Their sunny bedroom, a few square feet of heaven tucked away from the rest of planet Earth. A lifetime and a world away from Holmes Chapel. London may be shitty and expensive as fuck, but at least he’s got Louis. So Harry stays. It’s well dark before they make it downstairs, languid and loose and also starved out of their minds.  

Louis follows Harry into the kitchen. It’s just as dark inside as it is out, on account of Niall smashing the single ceiling light during a rowdy rendition of Don’t Stop Believing three Tuesdays ago. Zayn and Liam sit at the kitchen table, their profiles illuminated by the industrial torch Liam brought with him when he moved in, in case of a blackout or zombie apocalypse. They both have their wallets out, slotting their share of the rent onto the pile in the middle of the table, the smoke from their cigarettes mingling between them. Niall sits on the kitchen counter next to the sink, his last beer squeezed between his thighs, watching.

Louis’ lips pull into a grimace as he reaches for his wallet and Harry follows, frowning at the single £20 note left behind. He still hasn’t gotten his pay for the last two weeks, but his boss is half-giant, and after shattering two glasses during his last shift he didn’t feel like hounding him for it. He drops the money on the table without a word, en-route to the fridge. There’s some bread in there, next to some casserole in that he can’t remember who made or when. He hands Louis two slices over the fridge door, and Niall swipes the casserole with a shrug.

Liam stubs out his cigarette and tucks the haphazard pile of notes into a blank envelope. He nods once at the others and takes his leave to deliver the envelope to Jerry nextdoor. Jerry likes Liam the best, Liam is the good egg. The only one of them left at uni now, smart boy. He’s gonna do well.

Harry can feel Zayn’s eyes on him as he folds his bread in half and takes a bite, watching Liam slip out the front door. Silhouetted in the torch light with his smoke poking from his lips like some goddamn model from _GQ_ , Zayn cocks his head. _You alright mate?,_ he asks silently. Harry ducks his head.  

“One day, we won’t have to think about shit like this.” reminds Zayn. Louis huffs out a single, bleak laugh and rips his bread into two with his teeth. Harry folds over the bread into fours

One day.

 

*

 

Louis first suggests it on Wednesday night. He’d come home from the shop with a sore back and sour mood, cursing his boss, the customers, the broken air-con, and menopausal Mother Nature. He’d slumped on the couch, ordered Harry to get him alcohol, crushed up a line, and then felt much better. Ten minutes later, he’s standing on their coffee table, a bottle of wine raised above his head and mid-note through the chorus of _Mr Brightside_ , with the TV remote as his microphone.

“We should rob a place.”

It interrupts the song so swiftly that Harry first thinks it’s an adlib. Louis gazes down at him from his impromptu stage, lips spread into such a wide grin that one would think it the greatest idea since flavoured lube. The thought causes Harry to scoff and down the rest of his bottle under his chuckles. He only realises Louis’ sincerity when he glances up again to spot his frown.

Harry furrows his eyebrows, “You’re not serious, Lou.”

“I’m dead fucking serious.” he replies, kicking out his leg and crossing it over his other foot, spinning on the balls of his feet like a popstar. His eyes shine against the torchlight the same way they do when he’s performing; walking on clouds above his adoring earthly admirers. Louis shuffles over the table, unaffected by his nausea, “You need money. I need money. Our jobs are shit. And no fucking bank’ll give us a loan to pay for our habit.”

Harry’s jaw tenses at the word. _Habit._ It spills out so easily from Louis’ lips, like a joke. Louis knows how much he detests it, the connotations of it, the shocked looks from strangers on the tube when it refers to it in passing, like their beloved pet. Louis seems unconcerned, feet tapping to an irregular beat only he’s aware of.

“Think of all those mansions in Camden. How many of them are insured, do you think? How many of them are empty? We could go in, steal some stuff, some cash and sell it. Nobody would see. We get money, the rich fuckers get it back on their insurance, everyone’s happy.”

Now finally, Louis looks at him. And in the absence of a wide-eyed smile and confirmation that this is, in fact, the best idea ever, Louis’ face crumples into a glower, the wine bottle and remote now both held by his sides, fingers gripped tight around the neck of each. Behind him, the TV flips to BBC News.

“Oh come on, Harry! Don’t pretend like you haven’t been worrying about this all fucking week. I can see your face, I’m not blind! You know you need the money, both of us know. And more importantly, you need a hit. A good one. Soon.”

Harry sits himself back on the couch, elbows pressed into his knees, the truth of Louis’ words turning the wine in his stomach to lead. He’d spent every shift this week so far devising how to survive the next week on £20 or so, each idea becoming more desperate than the last. But this is no option.

“We don’t have to rip off grannies just for a high.” He responds after several moments. Louis throws his head back and roars out a groan.

“We’re not gonna rip off grannies, Harry! Just some rich fuckers who have more money than sense!”

If Louis meant for this to be reassuring, the resentment sawing his tone to spikes causes it to miss completely. This...this is the stuff of addicts. Harry’s no addict. Louis isn’t. They just like to get high. They’re always in control. They choose when they do it and when they don’t. They can stop when it’s not right. They don’t need it everyday, every hour.  It’s no habit, it’s no addiction. But stealing from people just to pay it off...that’s a level he doesn’t want to jump too. That’s a ledge too high to fall from unscathed. He doesn’t want to leap onto it.

Not yet. Not now. Not like this.

Harry runs his hands through his hair, pulling at it once, when he hears Louis’ ragged breaths quicken in frustration.

“Louis, think about this. Really think. This is a terrible idea.”

But Louis turns even more petulant. He crosses his arms tight and straightens, still clutching the bottle and remote.

“Well how _else_ do you suppose that we get our shit together, Harry? Find another job? Fucking where? Where else are we gonna get work with the fucking crisis going on out there.” Louis takes a heavy swing from his bottle, most of it missing his mouth and dribbling down his chin. He drags his sleeve roughly across the skin, leaving a trail of maroon wine and pink flushed skin underneath, “Or are you still gonna pretend that we’ll make it big some day? Like we did at uni, huh? Pretending we’re gonna be famous one day.”

Louis spits out the last sentence, hiccups, and takes a third swing in as many moments.

“One day. One day. One day.” He shouts, his voice breaking on the last repeat. And Harry watches in silence as Louis’ face crumples with it. He screams out and slams the bottle down on the table, and miraculously it doesn't break under his palm. Maybe angered by the fact it didn’t, he howls again and digs his palms into his eye sockets, fingers scratching at his hair. He squats down on his hunches, falling onto the coffee table beside the bottle. And he sobs.

Harry shifts from the couch, crouching into the narrow space between it and the table. Louis doesn’t move, but his shoulders heave with deep, wrecked breaths. Maybe it’s stupid to have so much hope, but someone’s got to have some. Harry sighs and reaches to place a hand on Louis’ shoulder.

“We will, I promise. But not like this, Lou.”

Louis jerks away from his hand.

“You hate all of my ideas!” he accuses, grabbing at the bottle and jabbing it in Harry’s face, “Every single one of them, don’t you? Don’t lie to me. You think I’m a fucking idiot. A uni dropout, a shithead.”

It’s just the high talking. Louis’ had a shit day at work and he needs to vent. It’s just the high. So Harry waits for him for look up again, to meet his gaze. When Louis does, he can bloody well see the high shining behind his pupils.

“That’s not true.” he says firmly, reaching again to hold Louis’ shoulders. Louis allows it, but he visibly tenses, his neck disappearing into the sharp juts of his collarbones. Harry keeps his gaze, “You know that’s not true.”

Harry moves his hands along Louis’ shoulders, which surrender easily to his touch. They ghost over his neck and reach up to cup his face, fingers angled along the sharp lines of his jaw. By now, only Louis’ eyes remain fiery with the emotion that he can’t hope to process in his current state. So Harry kisses him. He kisses him and he knows that Louis can barely feel it through the numbness of his lips. Hell, Harry can feel it spread to his own, but he still licks every trace of it out of Louis’ mouth.

“You’re brilliant, Louis.” he says in between kisses, “And one day you’re gonna make it. We both will. I know it.”

Louis mumbles a complaint to this but Harry swallows it up. It doesn’t need to be voiced. Nothing more needs to be said right now. At last, Louis allows himself to curl his arms around Harry’s neck as he whimpers against his lips. He pulls him against his body, holding so tight you’d think he’d die should they be physically separated. Maybe they would be.

Harry sucks Louis’ tongue into his mouth and lets him twist his arms around him.

Louis will forget about it in the morning. It’s just another dumb coke idea, to store away in the happy memories of all their other coke-filled escapades.

 

*

 

Louis doesn’t forget it in the morning. 

He doesn’t forget it in the following week, either. Not when they lie-in on Sunday morning, sharing a joint over job searches on Louis’ laptop, (“Think of how much more we could make. Think of what we could do with our Sunday mornings free.”)

Not when he overhears Harry borrowing five quid from Liam to take the tube to work, (“Well maybe if you had a decent source of income, you wouldn’t have to do this.”)

Not even during grocery shopping, “No-brand again, Harry? Even _I_ have standards on my frozen vegetables.”

Louis’ leaning up against the glass door of the freezer with a smirk and his arms crossed over his chest, ignoring the goosepimples popping up all over his uncovered biceps. He eyes the plain packaging dubiously and raises an eyebrow at Harry.

Perhaps it’s the fact that Harry just worked a twelve hour shift and still had to take Louis grocery shopping since he forgot to do it himself today. Maybe it’s the fact that Louis’ been bringing this up at every chance he gets alone with Harry, whether it be in the shower, in bed, or on the bus.

It’s very definitely the fact that Louis still can’t see how plainly idiotic his idea is to begin with that pushes Harry over the edge.

“Oh fuck off, Louis. You know that we can barely afford this as it is.” And Louis’ smirk widens. Apparently that was the exact response he’d been hoping for.

“Well _I_ happen to know a great way how we can-”

“I said fuck off, Louis. Just shut it with your fucking idiot ideas and FUCK OFF.”

Harry doesn’t realise how loud he’s raised his voice until he spies the shocked mother and toddler pulling out meat pies from the freezer a few feet away. He clenches his teeth and pulls his lips over them into a frown and glowers at Louis, breathing heavily as he drops the frozen carrots into the basket.

Louis raises an eyebrow, standing up from the freezer.

“Idiot ideas, huh? And here I am, trying to fix your problems.”

“I don’t want your fix!” seethes Harry, glancing again at the mother and her pursed lips, “It’s stupid and dangerous and I don’t want any part of it. So just fuck off.”

Louis eyes him for many moments.

“It is. But it’s a fix.” he says, brushing past him and stalking towards the checkout. Harry sighs and grabs at the basket, shooting what he hopes comes out as an apologetic smile to the woman.

They don’t speak the whole way home.

 

*

 

When Harry arrives back at the house two hours late after work, his hands finally on his pay for the last six weeks, Louis barely affords him a greeting.

He’s sitting next to Niall on the good couch, Xbox controller balanced on his lap beside a beer, eyes hardly leaving FIFA 15. He does tilt his chin up to peck Harry’s lips as he passes by enroute to the kitchen, and that’s when he glances at the wad of banknotes for half a second, before shaking his head in disbelief.

“There’s a simpler solution.” He remarks in what could have been taken as a passing statement, if not for the fact he says it loud and clearly enough for the others not to help but overhear.

Fucking hell, Louis, Harry thinks, narrowing his eyes at him. Bringing in the other boys, how childish. How foolish.

“It’s not simple.” he warns, “and it’s barely a solution.”

“What isn’t?” pipes up Niall. Louis looks to Harry with a raised eyebrow and smirk, pleased his bait worked. Harry keeps his mouth closed and glares back, before stalking off towards the kitchen. Apparently unperturbed by this, Louis turns back to the others. He lets go of the controller and straightens himself up on the couch, taking the beer from his lap and lifting his feet from the coffee table onto the floor. He surveys their attentive faces.

“All those posh fuckers in Camden.” He says, and he’s met with a row of expressions with varying levels of confusion. He grins, “How much jewellery do you reckon they keep in their houses?”

Niall shrugs and shoots past Louis’ abandoned goalie, placing him in the lead.

“A few grand’s worth?” he suggests, his voice light despite the concern crossing his features that confirms he already knows where Louis is going with this.

“At least.” Agrees Liam, also sitting up, his elbows balanced on his knees. Beside him, Zayn lifts his beer to his lips, studying Louis over the lip.

“So spare change,” snorts Louis, “to them, at least.” He glances over his shoulder to gauge Harry’s response, but Harry’s already turned away, shoulders tensing from how tightly he’s crossed his arms. He’s said his piece already. Fine then. Louis can go to jail. He can drag the other boys there with him. Harry isn’t going to save his stupid arse. He’s not getting involved. He’s not.

He flicks on the kettle with more force than he’d intended.

“Yeah,” replies Niall, his eyes still on FIFA, “but they probably have security too. Cameras and guards and alarms. ‘S not worth it.”

Louis raises his eyebrows.

“Really, Nialler? You don’t think it’s worth it?” Niall shrugs and Harry can feel his eyes flit to his back as he pulls out the pot noodles from the cupboard and tears them open. Louis actually laughs at this, patronising and self-satisfied, like that’s just confirmed his point, “Let’s put it this way then: how much did that shit set you back?”

He nods to the ziplock bag stuffed between Niall’s feet.

“Just how much are they paying you at that hellhole you work at?” Louis spits, and Niall frowns.

“And you.” He rounds on Zayn, apparently no longer content with his silence and observing, “You’ve been complaining about the shit we’ve been smoking for months now.”

The room’s silent. Harry pours the boiling water from the kettle into the pot, fingernails leaving crescent marks in the styrofoam.

“All I’m saying is that this is a fast, painless solution, boys. I’m not suggesting we go all Bonnie and Clyde!” Louis raises his voice for that part, so Harry can hear him from the kitchen. He ignores him. “A one-off, I swear. Just one time. One time to fix this shit properly, cause I’m fucking fresh out of ideas.”

FIFA goes ignored. Harry can hear the cheer of the animated crowd clearly over the stunned silence of the living room. He doesn’t miss the slight break in Louis’ voice on his final sentence. He feels it pierce through his bones. No one speaks for several minutes. Then,

“We’d have to stake out the place first.” says Liam.  

“And know when the owners are away. I’m not doing a home invasion.” adds Zayn.

Harry grips the styrofoam cup in his fist. The heat burns his palm, but he hardly cares. Stupid. Foolish. They all agreed so easily.

“Haz, are you in?” Louis calls from the couch. Harry takes his pot noodles and appears in the kitchen doorway, eyes darting to each of the boys’ faces, hoping there’s enough disappointment to go around. He reaches Louis’ last, and Louis stares right back at him, his eyes bright and blue and insane. He’s insane.

Louis’ mouth twitches and he shrugs nonchalantly.

“Have it your way.” he says, though Harry swears he can hear a tightness in Louis’ voice that wasn’t there before. Harry stalks through the living room and upstairs. He’s not going to get involved. He’s not. Louis will realise how stupid he’s being. He hopes.

When Louis comes up to bed an hour later, he feigns sleep.

 

*

 

Neither of them mention it.

At least, they don’t in so many words. But Harry can taste the sharpening plans on Louis’ lips, he can feel the excitement buzzing off his skin whenever he steps in close. And when he runs his hands over Louis’, it’s electric, and it zaps him every time. He’s sure Louis can feel it too, though he never even hints it.

It’s truly the elephant in the room. Harry can sense it the moment he walks into the house.  He can spot its tail peeking out from the living room when he retreats into his - their - bedroom for the fourth day in a row while the others assemble downstairs. Louis’ stupid idea is growing now, taking on a life of its own. It’s left the realm of dreams and met with planning, and with three others involved, the likelihood of it finally fizzling out is smaller.

The thing is, it’s never a one time thing with Louis. If he pulls this off, it’ll stay in his mind forever, and the next time he finds himself in this situation, it’ll be a once-off again. And again. As much as Louis claims to be self-aware, there’s an awful lot he fails to see in himself. The others...they haven’t known him long enough to realise this yet.

So in that moment, Harry hates Louis. He hates him for thinking of the idea in the first place. He hates him for insisting on it. He hates him for bringing it up to him, to the others, so it wouldn’t just die.

But when Louis comes upstairs and presses his lips to Harry’s, with his hands slipping under his shirt, Harry finds his resistance weakened. When Louis climbs on top of him and grinds down, he still can’t help but breathe out his name. And after he comes with Louis’ mouth stretched around him and his cock brushing the back of his throat, he has to remind himself to gasp back the _I love you_.

Louis doesn’t.

“I love you.” he breathes into Harry’s mouth, “I hope you know that.”

He knows that Louis does. And he knows that Louis knows he loves him back. Even when he’s being an insufferable idiot.

Louis’ drifting off to sleep when Harry gets up again and snorts the last of his good stash off their dresser.

It’s okay. He needed it. And he got paid this week. He’ll be fine, so long as he gets paid on time next. He’s in no need of stupid schemes and burglaries. He’s better than that. So if Louis and the others want to put their asses on the line, it’s not going to be Harry coming to the rescue. He works hard and snorts up. He’s not getting involved. He’s not getting involved.

When a small voice whispers into the quiet bedroom, “I’m doing this for both of us”, Harry’s not entirely sure if it’s real or not.

 

*

 

Louis and Zayn disappear for the entirety of Monday. When Harry arrives home before they do, he doesn’t doesn’t ask where the’ve gone. He pretends not to see the permanent furrow in Liam’s eyebrows, nor does he mention how he checks his phone every thirty seconds. The boys return home without injury just past 9pm, with twin grins, a time, a target, and a gun 

Harry doesn’t join in on the celebrations.

 

*

 

On Thursday the day of, Niall wakes up to walk downstairs and throw up into the shoes he left by the front door. Then he vomits into the kitchen sink, and finally the garbage bin before Zayn and Liam bundle him into the downstairs bathroom. 

Harry brings him water every half hour for the rest of the day, an exciting use of his day off indeed. He doesn’t miss the uneasy stares he receives from Liam and Zayn each time he walks into the kitchen, mouths slightly agape, as though the question they’d meant to ask him just dried up on their lips.

When Louis arrives home from the shop, he can barely get out his quip about the vomit-scented welcoming he received before he’s dragged by the shirt into the kitchen. Harry keeps his attention set on the rerun of Pointless he’d stopped watching seriously twenty minutes ago, certainly not listening to the barely-hushed argument in the adjacent room. Ten minutes later, Louis joins him on the couch, pressing their legs together and holding out their dented biscuit tin to him. Harry scoffs. Like stale chocolate biscuits are going to help. Louis takes a biscuit for himself.

“Those damn tuna casseroles.” he laughs weakly, as though the tension in the room wasn’t so thick it could crush that damn tin like a can of Coke. It occurs then to Harry that they haven’t actually talked much in the last week, not with Louis spending his every spare moment with the others, plotting and planning, “Zayn reckons Niall’s got food poisoning.”

“Poor Niall.” Harry replies, with little empathy. His guts twist to form a knot at the bottom of his stomach. He knows what Louis is going to ask of him, it’s been on his mind all day. But he isn’t ready to hear it.

“Tonight’s our last chance, you know. The owners come back tomorrow.” Louis remarks, his voice casual. Harry’s lips pull into a thin line.

“Don’t do it then.”

“You know we can’t do that.” replies Louis softly. Harry barks out a laugh.

“Can’t?” He repeats incredulously, still watching the blur of people on the TV, “Of course you can, Louis. This is all your idea to begin with.”

Louis is quiet for a moment. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry sees him picking at a loose thread in the ripped knees of his jeans, his eyes cast downward.

“It is.” He agrees, his voice much lower, “And you’re right, it’s a completely shit idea too. It’s awful and it’s fucked up and stupid.”

Harry feels his heart thump louder in his chest, the rest of the world falling eerily silent. Louis looks up, his eyes trained on the same bare space of wall above the TV as Harry’s.

“But I’m still gonna do it Haz, because I’m getting desperate. This isn’t me talking shit on a high, this is a problem I have to fix. I’m going to be dead broke soon, I think we both are. And shit, this is the worst fucking idea in the world, and I’m fucking terrified, but it’s better than doing nothing at all.”

Louis’ eyes are shining when Harry turns to look at him, icicle-blue and wet. But his tone is somber in a way that Harry has never heard in relation to their plans. And it briefly occurs to him that he’s never actually been around to hear Louis talk about the plans at all.

At least he knows what a shit idea it is, at least.

“I’m only going to ask you once, Harry. And if you say no, I won’t ask again. Niall is - was - gonna be our driver. He was gonna just sit in the car and wait for us to come out. He wasn’t going in, he wasn’t even on lookout. He was just gonna drive.” Louis bites his lip, levelling his gaze with Harry’s, “We really need you, Haz. I really need you to help us out here.”

There’s a definite undertone in Louis’ tone, a sort of anxious finality to the way he talks about this. This isn’t giving him a rush. He’s not getting off on this. There’s no excitement, no joy. This is clearly a means to an end. And Louis is scared.

Maybe enough so it won’t happen again.

Louis ducks his head away, and Harry can see from the way he forces his lips together that he’s close to tears.

Maybe.

Harry sighs and reaches his arm around Louis’ small form, pulling him into his chest. Louis comes willingly, collapsing into him with his hands still clutching the biscuit tin. I’m an idiot, Harry thinks, dropping his head into Louis’ hair. Louis smells like the shops’ air freshener. I’m a fucking idiot and I’m also the stupidest one at that.

“Fine.” he resolves, his lips pressing into Louis’ hair. Louis stills.

“What?”

“Fine, I’ll be your driver.” Louis pulls back, his eyes darting over Harry’s face for a sign of deceit, “But this is the first and last time. For both of us.” He adds firmly. Louis nods.

“The one and only,” he agrees resolutely, and for the first time since he pitched this whole ludicrous plan, Harry actually believes him.

 

*

 

Number 34 went to Monaco for their annual summer holiday, according to Joy from across the street. They packed up their best swimsuits, dumped their yappy dogs at an exclusive pet spa retreat, and took off in a limousine headed towards Heathrow. 

The bloody dogs are probably eating better meals than Harry’s had in weeks, Louis is sure to include as he rattles off every detail he can remember  during the drive. He laughs too loud at this, but his laughter doesn’t spread.

At 11:40, Harry pulls up to the kerb a few doors down from 34. The night’s still and sweaty on account of the spike in humidity in the evening hours, so when Louis and Zayn don their balaclavas at 11:43, they already have streams of sweat trickling down their necks. They enter via the unlocked side door at 11:45. No alarm sounds.

Harry and Liam sit in silence, Harry gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turn white under the moonlight coming through the windshield, while Liam keeps his eyes on the front windows of the target. The target. Harry feels sick to his stomach. The minutes tick away slowly, timed by the thump of Harry’s heart threatening to burst out of his ribcage.

At 11:55, a police car pulls into the street.

Liam notices it first, hissing out a fucking shit as his fingers fly over his phone to send an SOS to the others inside. Harry feels his pulse leap in his temples, the adrenaline spike making his ears ring as he watches the car stop in front of number 34, and two officers step out of it.

They get no response to Liam’s text.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

The two officers knock on the front door, and when no response comes, they follow the driveway down towards the side door.

Of course they left it fucking open, didn’t they?

Only when he hears it does Harry realise he’s never heard a real-life gunshot before. It sounds exactly like the movies, trust that to be the one thing they never lied about. It reminds him of all those times a car backfired on the street below his and Louis’ window when they tried to have lie-in; unexpected, punctuated, final. It rattles his bones.

Harry’s out of the car faster than Liam can yell after him, tearing across the street and down the driveway of number 34 towards the cops. The gunshot - whoever’s it was - had made them run for cover behind the wall outside the side door. Harry yells out just before he tackles the closest one to the ground, propelling them into the concrete driveway with a grunt as the cop’s elbow jerks into the soft tissue under his ribs. Thankfully he’s got height on his side, and when the other cop jumps to restrain him, Harry can thrash his limbs around enough to make it difficult.

There’s a jumble of heavy footsteps and then Harry feels someone pull the cop off him. He takes the chance to scramble off the one he’d tackled, leaping up onto his feet. Someone else manages to land a decent hit on the cop on the ground, followed by a ooof. There’s a sickening snap, several grunts and the ripping of flesh meeting concrete.

Then another two gunshots go off.

Harry screams first, before his hands reach for his side and press into the searing pain and the mess of blood on instinct. He swears at the added pressure and squeezes his eyes shut, dizzied by the pain. It’s so intense, so deep that he isn’t exactly sure where he’s been shot. His whole side feels like it’s been ripped apart from the inside out. He can barely focus on anything except the pain. The next thing he’s aware of is that he’s being dragged, his feet scraping over the concrete driveway as the others carry him as they sprint, placing him in the backseat of the car. He starts to feel groggy, too. He’s nothing more than exhaustion and adrenaline and pain, though somewhere, not too far off, he can hear swearing and a screech of tires as the car jerks forward.

“Fuck. Fuck. Whatdowedo?” Zayn’s breaths are shallow and rapid. Harry struggles to open his eyes, only getting far enough to see the gun left in Zayn’s hand.

“Lou.” Zayn yells, “What do we do?”

“I don’t know,” snaps Louis, breathing heavily. Someone, Liam probably, takes the next turn too fast, and the three of the them fly across the backseat, Harry landing on the wrong side. He manages to let out a moan.

“Your mum’s a nurse!” Zayn retorts as the car rights itself.

“Do I _look_ like a fucking nurse to you?” Louis shrieks back, though now Harry feels his hands pressing down over his open shirt, right over the bullet wound like in the movies. Maybe he isn’t totally clueless.

Through the haze of his half-closed lids and pain, Harry sees Louis’ eyes appear over him, wide and terrified and loving. He hears his name called out again. Then he passes out.

 

*

 

“Jesus fucking Christ, H. Nearly thought we’d lost you.” 

Harry’s eyes linger over Louis’ stricken face, still in too much pain to move. Louis shifts above him, his head and shoulders blocking out the glare of the afternoon sunlight. His hand moves to Harry’s hair, carding the curls gently through his fingers before tracing his hand down to cradle his cheek.

“Fuck. I’m so sorry, Haz. This shouldn’t have- I mean, I shouldn’t have- I didn’t mean for…”

Louis bites his lip and chokes out something between a sob and a laugh. The sound of it seems to catch him in surprise and he coughs, blinking away once before returning his gaze to Harry, unable to tear his eyes from him.

“There must have been a silent alarm. I’m so stupid, I should’ve guessed…” he trails off, his voice wavering. Behind him, Harry spots something shimmering on top of their dresser, the light catching on it as a breeze shifts the curtain over the window. Harry tilts his head to follow it with his eyes. And sure enough, heaped into a tangled clump of precious stones and metals on top of their dresser, lies their bounty.

They got away with it. They actually got away with it.

Harry laughs. Choked, pained giggles spill out of his mouth without his intent and Louis looks at him like he’s gone utterly mad. But he doesn’t stop, he can’t. Maybe he has gone a little mad.

“Haz, what are you-” Louis starts, before Harry gathers together the last of his strength to thread his fingers into Louis’ hair and pull him down into a kiss. Louis doesn’t resist.

“I love you.” Harry says as he pulls away, his lips slightly numbed from kissing, “I love you, and what we did was completely stupid and can never happen again. But we’re gonna make it, Louis. We’re gonna make it.”

“Yeah.” Louis grins, “We will, one day. I know it.”

 

 

 

 


End file.
